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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820532">Poisoned Desires</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda'>LadyGlinda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Blood and Violence, Dark John Watson, Don't Like Don't Read, Eventual Fluff, Homelessness, John Is So Done, M/M, Making Love, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Mycroft, Revenge, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love, Vibrators, holmescest, minor John/OFC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:35:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherrinford, John has moved back in with Sherlock. He develops feelings for Sherlock and one day, he tries to seduce him. Things get out of hand.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anthea &amp; Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, One-Sided John Watson/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This isn't a nice story. People suffer. No Johnlock-ending here! But of course there will be a happy ending.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“Had a date last night, John?” There was a rather malicious smile around Sherlock's lips.</p><p class="western">“Yep,” John said, courtly.</p><p class="western">“Not much of a pleasure, uh?”</p><p class="western">“Could you kindly stop deducing me?” John snapped.</p><p class="western">He saw Lestrade looking from one to the other, showing more patience than John felt.</p><p class="western">“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. “Back to the case… It’s so easy, Lestrade.”</p><p class="western">John let him brag, his genius detective friend. It was nice to be on a case again for a change. His free day. As free as it could get with a little daughter to raise on his own… Sure, he had help. Molly took Rosie regularly when she was finished working. His mum loved to go to the playground with the girl. And even Harry and her new girlfriend Coco spent time with her regularly. All the women in his life.</p><p class="western">His date would not be one of them. Of course Sherlock had deduced correctly – it had not been very pleasant. He could still see her face, her mouth forming an ‘O’, her eyes full of tears. Her hand had reached up to her burning cheek.</p><p class="western">Bitch. All they ever wanted from him anymore was a bit of fame. To know stuff about Sherlock, to hear juicy details of murder cases and gossip about Sherlock’s (non-existent) private life. And when he talked about the detective, they blamed him for only thinking of him. Which he didn't. Ridiculous…</p><p class="western">It had been too much. He’d slapped her. Hard. He wasn’t proud of it but he hated this sneer, this belittling expression while teasing him with being too fond of Sherlock. He’d heard it all before, a long time ago.</p><p class="western">He looked at his friend, who was telling Lestrade about his brilliant conclusions. Looking very good, yes. His usually pale cheeks flushed, but not from having been hit. Sherlock was just excited about his own cleverness. His big weakness. The reason why John was a widower now.</p><p class="western">Yeah. He’d forgiven Sherlock for causing Mary’s death. He had just been being Sherlock – big-mouthed, show-off Sherlock, getting off on his own cleverness and to hell with the consequences. In the end, it had been Mary’s doom. And it could have been the end of their friendship. But he’d meant too much to John to give up on him for good. So he had moved back into Baker Street with his daughter. Just like old times. Almost...</p><p class="western">His eyes darted southwards involuntarily, glancing at Sherlock's behind. A sight to behold.</p><p class="western">He could feel his own cheeks flush, too, and he avoided looking at Sherlock, not keen on letting him deduce what had just briefly been on his mind.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">“Want to see a film tonight?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock looked up from the newspaper. “A what?”</p><p class="western">“A film, Sherlock. In the cinema,” John explained patiently.</p><p class="western">“Why would I?” Sherlock’s face was showing genuine confusion.</p><p class="western">John bit his lip. “Never mind. Let’s just watch telly.”</p><p class="western">“Actually, I have an appointment. But I might join you later.”</p><p class="western">John just nodded.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">“What’s that?”</p><p class="western">“Dinner.”</p><p class="western">“Yes, I figured out as much. But it’s no takeaway.”</p><p class="western">John was suddenly feeling a bit tired. “No. I do know how to cook.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock's look was more than a bit sceptical. “You do? I thought it’s limited to beans on toast.”</p><p class="western">“Just because you don’t care about proper food and it’s pretty pointless to prepare a full meal just for myself.”</p><p class="western">“Then why have you cooked now?” Sherlock asked with infallible logic.</p><p class="western">It was hopeless. Why had he even considered it? Sherlock didn’t see romance when it made a step dance right in front of him.</p><p class="western">But it was what John wanted… It had taken him long enough to accept it. Weeks had gone by since he had caught himself staring at Sherlock's arse. He was not gay. Had never been. But there was something about Sherlock that made this completely unimportant. Sherlock was… like nobody else. Man or not, he was special, unique, irresistible. And Mary had told him to give this a try, hadn’t she? <em>‘I know what you two could become.’ </em>They had interpreted this sentence as hinting at Sherlock turning back to the drugs and John, well, probably just giving up. But now he was sure that she had, in fact, meant that they could be an item. A couple. Damn, even Irene Adler had said this to him. <em>‘We’re not a couple,’</em> he had protested. <em>‘Yes you are,’</em> she had shot back.</p><p class="western">They were not. But John wanted them to be. And Sherlock would see that they were meant to be together. Probably he already did. He was just too inexperienced to understand what John was on about. Well, he would help him find out. But he had to take it slow so he wouldn’t scare Sherlock off. Maybe it was indeed hopeless. But John Watson had never given up so easily.</p><p class="western">“Pasta?” he offered. Sherlock had not been at home that many evenings lately. When John had asked, he had waved it away, mumbling something about experiments and the homeless network. Had it been true? But what else? Sherlock wasn’t <em>dating</em> anyone. That was ridiculous. And now he was here...</p><p class="western">Sherlock grinned and took a seat. “Well, since you’ve cooked. Let’s see how good you are.”</p><p class="western">Oh yes. He would find that out very soon.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">“That was great work.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock smiled at him. “Thank you. Bit obvious, wasn’t it?”</p><p class="western">No. Not really. Only Sherlock could have figured out that the plain, boring looking teacher had taught the son of the inconsolable politician a bit more than mathematics. And that the son, the victim, had not liked that, which had led to his death. Sad story. Brilliantly solved by the world’s only consulting detective.</p><p class="western">John let him lead the way. His eyes were magically drawn to how Sherlock's bum was moving while he was walking. John got hard. That had happened a lot lately.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock seemed to be completely oblivious to his attempts at taking their friendship to another level. Was he really? Or did he simply ignore it? It was hard to tell.</p><p class="western">John knew he should let it be. Sherlock was not like other people – he had stated this before. But it didn’t only mean he was smarter, more interesting and everything else – he was also not interested in relationships.</p><p class="western">To not risk their friendship any further, he should stop trying to get closer to Sherlock when they were watching telly. Stop touching him ‘accidentally’. Stop gaping at him when he walked through the flat, barely dressed. Sherlock could not miss this forever. And then what?</p><p class="western"><em>He wants me, </em>John thought. <em>Always did.</em> And he was not just anybody. He was the man Sherlock had ‘died’ for. His only friend.</p><p class="western">It was time. Time to be clear. Time to show him what he was missing out on. Time to let him know that John could be so much more than his best friend. And Sherlock was gay; he had never given the impression of being straight. Irene Adler had confused him but he had not touched her. He had used Janine to get to Magnussen but he had never had sex with her; Janine had told Mary. So Sherlock was into men, if he had ever tried anything physical with any or not. He just screamed ‘gay’.</p><p class="western">John had never fucked a man. But what was the big difference? He’d done women up the arse. And Sherlock had the greatest arse he had ever seen – it made up for the tits he didn’t have.</p><p class="western">He couldn’t wait to bury his cock in it.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">“Hey, what are you doing?” Sherlock protested.</p><p class="western">John put the phone he had taken from Sherlock's hand onto the table. “You’ve been at it for hours.” First Sherlock had been sitting in his chair, then he had moved over to the couch, where John had joined him a few minutes ago.</p><p class="western">“Well, I was investigating…”</p><p class="western">“Yeah, whatever.” It had rather looked as if Sherlock had been texting with someone. But he would not do this now. John took a deep breath. He had rehearsed this. Over and over again. “Look. Things are fine between us again, aren’t they?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock gave him a confused look. “I think so, yes. You forgave me. You said.”</p><p class="western">“Yes. Yes I did. Was like forgiving a shark for biting into human legs. Can’t help it, can it?”</p><p class="western">“Well, this is a weird metaphor but…”</p><p class="western">“Yes, whatever. So. I’m back. With Rosie. You okay with that, hm?”</p><p class="western">“Sure. Of course I am. Rosie is like my…”</p><p class="western">“So. What do you think? Isn’t it time to take the next step?”</p><p class="western">Now Sherlock's face was a mask of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean, John. I… Oh…”</p><p class="western">God, these lips. They were made for kissing. Softer than any woman’s John had ever tried. And then he was pushed away.</p><p class="western">“What the hell do you think you’re doing, John!” Sherlock was on his feet.</p><p class="western">So was John. “You’ve wanted me since we first moved in together.” His hands were deftly opening Sherlock's shirt buttons.</p><p class="western">The detective all but gaped at him. “No, I did not, I… Well perhaps I did consider it for a while but…”</p><p class="western">“Yes, then you faked your death and I got married. All over now.” The shirt fell onto the floor. God, what a body this man had…</p><p class="western">“True, but that doesn’t mean that…”</p><p class="western">“Shut up, Sherlock. We both know you want this.” And with this, John all but threw Sherlock back onto the couch and straddled him the next moment, bending down to kiss him again.</p><p class="western">“No, John, stop it!” Sherlock tried to shove him away but John might be way shorter than him, but he was strong.</p><p class="western">And when Sherlock raised his head to get up, he hit John’s forehead and sank back, groaning. John had always had a thick skull. His lips pressed into a thin line of anger, he fumbled with Sherlock's trousers. “I know it scares you to get intimate with someone but that will go by quickly. I know what I’m doing.” He stared at the pink cock he had revealed. Damn, Sherlock was big. His balls were round and hairless and John grabbed for them.</p><p class="western">“God, John, I have no idea what made you think I want this but I do not! Stop it now!”</p><p class="western">It just happened. John’s fist collided with Sherlock's cheek. The detective moaned, closing his eyes, his skin swelling within seconds. John grabbed his cock. Stroked it roughly, and chuckled triumphantly when it grew plump under his ministrations.</p><p class="western">“See. I told you you want it.” John let him go to strip himself, pushing Sherlock back onto the couch when he tried to get away. He lifted Sherlock's legs, staring at the wrinkled flesh between his fantastic globes. He pushed against it and Sherlock’s hand slapped his face. John hit him with the back of his hand. He grabbed his cock and guided it to Sherlock's entrance. It was closed. “Relax it.”</p><p class="western">“You’re crazy. You have no idea what Mycroft is going to do with you.”</p><p class="western">“Mycroft?” John huffed out a laugh. “What does your brother have to do with us?” He tried to force his small cock into Sherlock's hole. And somehow his erection subsided. His cock shrunk in his hand. “Fuck.”</p><p class="western">“Not with that little thing.”</p><p class="western">“What?” John gaped at Sherlock, whose face was turned into a sneer.</p><p class="western">“Get off of me, John. This is embarrassing.”</p><p class="western">John felt wrath overwhelm him. This man had taken his wife away from him. And now he was mocking him. Belittling him. Once again he tried to penetrate Sherlock but his half-hard cock just glided over the tightly closed hole. So he hit him again. And again.</p><p class="western">The pain in his hand made him come to his senses. Saw the damage he had done. “God. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”</p><p class="western">His left eye swollen to a tiny slit, Sherlock opened his bloody mouth. “Go. Now.”</p><p class="western">John grabbed his clothes. “Let’s forget it. Won’t happen again.”</p><p class="western">When he stalked out of the room, he missed seeing Sherlock reach for his phone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Very slowly, John opened his eyes. God. Everything was hurting. He was kneeling. On a chair. Very uncomfortably. He was bent over the back of the chair. Tied to it, with arms and ankles. His back was bent in an awful way. His throat was horribly dry. It was rather dark in the room. A large room. Nearly empty. When his eyes had become adjusted to the dim light, he wondered why his surroundings looked so familiar. And the moment he realised that he had been here before, many years ago, he heard steps.</p><p class="western">“Ah, Doctor Watson. Back in the world of the living.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft. Who else? This was the warehouse where he had first met Sherlock's damned brother.</p><p class="western">He recalled how he had refused to sit down. Still using his walking stick by then and thinking his leg was merely useless, he had insisted on standing in front of Mycroft. He’d had no choice this time. Not that he was sitting… He was crouching over the bloody hard chair. How had he gotten here? And when? He didn’t recall having been kidnapped. Sedated. But it must have happened. And not just a few minutes ago, judging by the awful pain in his back.</p><p class="western">Mycroft walked around the chair. All John could see without looking up were his legs, clothed in slim-fit black trousers, and elegant black shoes. Polished. Did he have someone for doing that for him? John couldn’t see the posh man polishing his sodding shoes. Why was he thinking about this? His brain was not working very well. But he knew that he was in a lot of trouble...</p><p class="western">“How <em>are</em> you, John?”</p><p class="western">Mycroft's voice was bright, full of innocent friendliness. And he was vibrating with hatred. John didn’t need Sherlock's deductions skills to figure that out. This was not the man who rolled his eyes when Sherlock gave him bratty answers. Not the man who had refused to shoot someone. This was a brother raging with wrath, and that he didn’t show it made it all the more disturbing. The tall man was behaving like a predator, ready to strike.</p><p class="western">“I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him. How is he?” His voice sounded croaky and not at all like itself. And his stomach felt empty. Painfully empty. And Sherlock… He had really told Mycroft!</p><p class="western">“How is who? Are you possibly referring to my dear brother Sherlock? Who has just come home from hospital?” The voice was still completely calm.</p><p class="western">Hospital?! He hadn’t hit him that hard!</p><p class="western">“He has a – thankfully rather mild – concussion. His lips are split. His one eye was hit so hard that he can’t open it. By your fist, mind you.”</p><p class="western">God… How long had he been here in this fucking warehouse? Had he wetted himself? It bloody felt like it. His pants were clinging nastily to his bum. “I… I didn’t want that.”</p><p class="western">“I see. Was an accident, hm? Like last time, when you kicked him into a hospital to be almost suffocated by a serial killer.”</p><p class="western">“That was not what…”</p><p class="western">“Silence!” Mycroft didn’t sound calm and serene anymore. He sounded furious. He grabbed John’s chin and forced him to look up at him, making the sinews in his neck creak. “And this wasn’t even the first time, was it? When he came back from taking care of Moriarty’s network, you welcomed him by head-butting him and trying to strangle him, didn’t you?”</p><p class="western">“I was upset, he should have told me that…”</p><p class="western">“Shut the fuck up.”</p><p class="western">John closed his mouth almost in shock. Mycroft's voice had been quiet again but nobody could have missed the undertone of absolute contempt. And that choice of words… Nothing anyone would expect from this sophisticated man.</p><p class="western">“And we won't forget what else you were trying to do this time.”</p><p class="western">John saw his cock pushing against Sherlock's dry entrance. “I… I thought he wanted it.”</p><p class="western">“Oh did you? Did he not say ‘no’? Did he not ask you to stop?”</p><p class="western">“I thought… he’s just shy. He’d kept wiggling his arse in front of me for ages!”</p><p class="western">He heard Mycroft take a deep breath. “I see. Hm. So… Not quite that ‘not gay’, you?”</p><p class="western">“I… I think I’m bi.”</p><p class="western">“Oh. Interesting! Figured that out just now, did you? And then you thought, hey, Sherlock is gay and a virgin, so let’s make his first time a wonderful experience without lubricant or any preparation, and if he says ‘no’, let’s just ignore that as he has no idea what he wants.”</p><p class="western"><a id="docs-internal-guid-78e37ddd-7fff-995d-a8" name="docs-internal-guid-78e37ddd-7fff-995d-a8"></a> “I… I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.” He sounded stupid to his own ears. What had he been thinking? Nothing, actually. He had been driven by some mad instinct he couldn’t explain. Not that this man wanted to hear any explanations. John was well aware that he had not been brought here to talk. Mycroft was out for revenge, not excuses.</p><p class="western">“No, John. You will definitely not do it again. You have moved out of Sherlock's flat. Actually your things all went missing.”</p><p class="western">John grew cold. “Rosie…”</p><p class="western">“Ah, your daughter. Did she get lost, too?” Mycroft asked in a pensive tone.</p><p class="western">He wouldn’t have done that… John glared at him, feeling tears coming to his eyes.</p><p class="western">Mycroft smiled down on him, and it was the nastiest and most malicious smile John had ever seen. This man in the expensive suit and the shiny shoes was not just Sherlock's brother. This was the man he really was in his cellar in Whitehall. The man Sherlock had called ‘The British Government’. The man who basically was the Secret Service. The CIA. Everything the kingdom needed. This had nothing to do with his job. This was personal. But Mycroft would use all his power to destroy him. And Rosie… Sweet little Rosie...</p><p class="western">Mycroft eventually shook his head. “Your daughter is with your sister. She was told that you are not in the condition to take care of her. All the pressure got too much for you.”</p><p class="western">“You can’t kill me…” It had only now occurred to him that he might not leave this warehouse alive again.</p><p class="western">“Oh, I wouldn’t. My brother wouldn’t appreciate that; he made that clear much to my disappointment. But he did agree to never seeing you again. And listen, Doctor, if you try to contact him one more time, you won’t see me coming. Are we clear?”</p><p class="western">John started to sob. He couldn’t help it. But he nodded, snot running over his mouth.</p><p class="western">“But leaving Sherlock's life after this bit of inconvenience you’ve experienced so far is not quite enough. Sherlock has agreed on that, too, in case you wonder. Good-hearted and forgiving as he is towards you and your cunt of a wife, he would have let you get away but I could convince him that you might need a lesson. I could have arranged for you to lose your approbation. But then I thought it not quite fitting. In the end, you just wanted to experience anal sex. Well, you will have your way. Well, not quite of course. You’re not going to be the, how do they say, active partner, and, naturally, it won’t be with my brother.”</p><p class="western">John almost vomited. Mycroft wanted to… rape him? He stared at the man’s crotch. He was huge – his tight trousers stressed this rather than hid it.</p><p class="western">Mycroft snorted. “Ah, I see your pathetic thoughts. Do you really think I would touch you? Lower myself to put my cock into your nasty arse? No. Nobody will do that. But… There are other ways of showing you what it means to be penetrated without any care or preparation.”</p><p class="western">“I… did not do that.” He knew it was pointless but the words came out nonetheless.</p><p class="western">“No. Because you couldn’t even get it up. Pathetic.” Mycroft smiled down on him and then he looked above him. “If you please.”</p><p class="western">John tried to turn his head. There was someone else in here? Sherlock? He almost keeled over when he heard the noise of high heels. A woman?! He closed his eyes when he realised who it had to be. And then he opened them up when he heard Anthea (or whatever her real name was) speak. He saw long legs in a short skirt. He was not in the condition to appreciate the view.</p><p class="western">“Doctor Watson. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you again but that would be a lie.”</p><p class="western">She ruffled up her dark hair. She was wearing makeup. And a tight, black costume. John fleetingly noticed these details, clinging to a bit of reality in a situation surreal enough to get crazy over it.</p><p class="western">“I believe you’ve had quite the crush on my PA ever since you’ve moved in with my brother,” Mycroft said, rearranging his black leather gloves. “So I thought it would be a nice touch if I left it to her to introduce you to penetrative sex of the kind you haven’t tried yet but were so keen on trying out with my not consenting brother. Since you seem to be rather confused about your sexuality these days, a woman might be the perfect choice for that. Safe grounds for the start, hm? Show him, be so kind,” he turned to his secretary.</p><p class="western">Anthea disappeared from his view just to return with an object in her hand. It was purple. Huge. Thicker than his arm. Obscene. She touched a spot at the base and it started to vibrate. John gagged.</p><p class="western">Mycroft laughed. “Oh, she won’t force it into your <em>mouth.</em> Maybe we’ll do that afterwards, what do you think, my dear?”</p><p class="western">Anthea smiled brightly. “That’s a marvellous idea. His throat seems to be a bit dry though. Perhaps we should give him some water beforehand.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft nodded. “By all means. We wouldn’t want you to pass out because of dehydration, John. You are supposed to be… receptive.”</p><p class="western">A bottle was held out for him. John pressed his lips together. He was a soldier again. No cooperation with the enemy. It worked until Mycroft brutally pinched his nose, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. The bottle was inserted none-too gently and he spat out most of the water but some trickled into his throat, which was bent in a painful angle by Mycroft's strong hands.</p><p class="western">When they let him go, he felt, against his will, refreshed. And humiliated, but that had been the whole point of it. And they had only just begun…</p><p class="western">The brunette walked around him, holding this infernal piece of vibrating silicone. John gagged again when his trousers and pants were worked down to his knees, exposing his arse to her view. And when the huge tool was nudging against his hole, he cried out.</p><p class="western">“Ready, Johnny?” asked Mycroft with undisguised glee, and he chuckled when John pleaded to let him go.</p><p class="western">And then the unspeakable began.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">Mycroft rubbed his forehead. He had a headache. Which was no wonder after all this noise. And the smell… disgusting… There were good reasons for his dislike of legwork – this had been unavoidable though of course. He saw his PA looking at the floor, which was covered in blood and vomit, and shook his head at her frown. “Do not worry. The mess will be cleaned up when we’re out of here.”</p><p class="western">“Fine, sir. Could you drop me near my house?” She used another wet wipe. She had already needed quite a few for her hands and her right shoe.</p><p class="western">“Of course.”</p><p class="western">“How is he?”</p><p class="western">She did not mean Doctor Watson. “He’s recovering. His wounds will heal. But it was a shock for him. It came out of nowhere.” Probably not quite, but Sherlock had the tendency to miss such developments. Or people’s feelings for him in general. But much to his chagrin, Mycroft had not seen this coming, either. He would have stepped in before this disaster and spared Sherlock the pain...</p><p class="western">“I’m sure he’ll be fine soon. With your help.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft returned her affectionate smile. “I do hope so. I will go to him now.”</p><p class="western">They watched John Watson struggling with getting dressed. His thighs were caked with blood and probably excrements, too. His front was soiled with puke. Mycroft would have never thought a man could produce such high-pitched screams. Probably there wouldn’t be any lasting damage. Cuts, for sure. Bruises – many of them. The muscles of his anus were certainly torn. At least the man could still walk. Well, he crawled more than he walked right now but Mycroft doubted that his intestines had suffered any serious injuries. And if they had, well, Mycroft didn’t exactly care. If it had been his choice, John Watson would not be going anywhere anymore now.</p><p class="western">He should have taken care of him before, if he was into Sherlock or not. Latest when he had kicked Sherlock so viciously that he had almost died at Culverton Smith’s hands. But his brother had such a blind spot when it came to this man and even the late wife of the man. Mycroft loved his brother dearly, but there were treats he harboured that Mycroft could not understand. Caring was not an advantage – it had never been truer. At least not caring about undeserving people...</p><p class="western">They watched John limping out of the building without looking back. A defeated man if Mycroft had ever seen one. If he ever tried to get close to Sherlock again, it would be the very last thing he did. Sherlock had nodded to this – with tears in his eyes but knowing there was no way back, no repair of a friendship torn to shreds.</p><p class="western">Mycroft pulled out his phone to let someone know that this place had to get cleaned up. Then he nodded at his assistant. “We can go. Your assistance tonight is greatly appreciated. Expect a generous cheque tomorrow.”</p><p class="western">She smiled. “It was my pleasure. He’s gotten on my nerves ever since I first saw him. He’s been horrible to your brother. He deserved this and more.”</p><p class="western">“Well, in the end, he did have some sort of sexual encounter with you,” Mycroft teased her.</p><p class="western">She snorted. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t enjoy it half as much as I did.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft laughed and offered her his arm, and then they left together, careful to not step into the traces a very unhappy Doctor Watson had left.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Sherlock had left the light on in his bedroom, and he was lying on his bed in silky pyjamas. He had insisted on going back to Baker Street after leaving the hospital in the morning. Mycroft would have preferred if he had chosen to stay at his house. But he understood it. This was Sherlock's home and had been for many years. Mrs Hudson was here, and Mycroft knew she would take good care of his brother. She knew that John had attacked him. She had heard disturbing noises from above and stepped out of her flat to ask what was going on when the doctor had raced down the stairs. She had listened to Sherlock telling him on the phone what had happened – it had been Mycroft who had called the ambulance but she would have done it otherwise. She had been terrified…</p><p class="western">Sherlock had forbidden her to call Lestrade or the common police. And probably she had known that it wasn’t necessary with Mycroft being in the know. He was not quite sure what else she knew. This woman was smart. Annoying and nosy and a menace, yes, but smart, and devoted to his brother. He knew him in good hands with her – the best besides his own. He glanced at the half-empty glass of water and the plate with crumbs of biscuits on Sherlock's bed stand and silently thanked Sherlock's landlady for taking good care of baby brother. But perhaps Sherlock would agree at spending the nights with him until he felt better. Or for good?</p><p class="western">But Sherlock was still Sherlock. An independent, strong individual. Nobody had ever managed to break him. He had been deeply disturbed many times in his life – last when Mary Watson had lost her meaningless life to protect him. It had made him allow John to abuse him during the Culverton Smith case. Mycroft would never have that again. But when he looked into Sherlock's red-rimmed, resigned eyes now, he knew that Sherlock had understood that he was facing a future without John Watson.</p><p class="western">But not without <em>him</em>. Never without him.</p><p class="western">It didn’t hurt him that Sherlock mourned his friendship with a man who had long stopped deserving it. Not much, at least. Why Sherlock had chosen John to share his life with – as friends and partners in solving crimes – would always be a mystery to him but he knew that John had meant a lot to his brother. This couldn’t have vanished so easily. But at least the man in question had finally disappeared.</p><p class="western">He closed the distance and sat down next to Sherlock on the bed. His brother’s face is a mixture of bruises and swellings. “How’s your head, little brother?” He had all but begged Sherlock to stay in the hospital for at least another day. But he hadn’t been surprised at all when Sherlock had refused.</p><p class="western">“Better.” Sherlock’s voice sounded flat. And Mycroft knew he had deduced everything that had happened to John on Mycroft.</p><p class="western">He had washed his hands and refreshed himself in Sherlock's bathroom before entering his chamber. But Sherlock would still smell the warehouse, the blood and the contents of the doctor’s stomach. Mycroft should have gone home first to shower thoroughly and change clothes. But he had wanted to see Sherlock as soon as possible. And he knew that Sherlock had to know anyway, and he knew all he had to know from Mycroft's very appearance.</p><p class="western">Sherlock didn’t ask and Mycroft didn’t tell him.</p><p class="western">He didn't tell him how John had screamed and begged and how saliva had run down his chin when Anthea had been working the wide head of the sex toy into his dry entrance, blood eventually easing the way. How his eyes had been bulging out of their sockets when the massive intruder had slid home. How he had gagged and spat and howled when it had been moving in him with increased speed. Mycroft also didn’t tell his brother how he had been walking around them, watching the torture going on. How he had mocked John. That he had asked him, <em>‘Do you like that?’ ‘Is it how you imagined it?’ </em>How he had smiled down on the doctor’s smeared face, seeing him cry and hearing him cursing them and pleading to get released with nearly incomprehensible words.</p><p class="western">When he lay down behind Sherlock, pulling him against his chest, he remembered how John had gagged and vomited when Anthea had forced the vibrator into his mouth when Mycroft had given her a sign. John had not even fought her anymore. He had tasted his own shit and blood and had vomited. Anthea had not retreated quickly enough so one of her shoes had been soiled. She had slapped him in the face for that and John had looked like a man who was ready to die just to be over with this.</p><p class="western">Would he? Would he kill himself? Mycroft doubted it. The ex-soldier had gone through a lot in his life already. He would get over it. But he would never be the same man again. Would never be cocky and arrogant again, thinking he could take what he wanted. And he would never forget this lesson – he had no right to claim Sherlock for himself. To injure and humiliate him.</p><p class="western">Mycroft was sure they had made their point tonight. Thoroughly.</p><p class="western">And Sherlock knew it. He couldn’t deduce every detail but he knew that John had gone through hell tonight. And a part of Mycroft had feared that his brother would hate him for it. Resent him for removing John Watson from his life.</p><p class="western">But Sherlock snuggled back against him, his hand clutching Mycroft’s, which was lying on his chest, holding him tight.</p><p class="western">“Stay?” he asked, quietly.</p><p class="western">“Yes,” Mycroft said, simply. He would have preferred taking Sherlock to his house but his brother was not in the condition to leave his flat now. “Sherlock… Will you stay with me? When you feel better?”</p><p class="western">“This is where my clients look for me,” Sherlock mumbled, not sounding as if he cared that much about work right now.</p><p class="western">“True. But you could come here for the day and still sleep at my place.”</p><p class="western">And to his relief and joy, Sherlock nodded slightly. “I would like that.”</p><p class="western">“Great.”</p><p class="western">“I think Mrs Hudson does suspect something anyway.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft wasn’t surprised. And strangely not alarmed. “She will keep quiet, will she?”</p><p class="western">“Sure. She’ll never betray me.”</p><p class="western">What if John turned to her and complained about what had happened tonight? Whose side would she take then? But Mycroft knew it. Sherlock's. Always Sherlock's. And John had no injuries in his face, unlike Sherlock. He would not be walking straight anytime soon, but that would keep him from coming here – the shame, the humiliation. Even if he was crazy enough to get near Sherlock's flat after what Mycroft had told him. Something told him that neither of them would ever see John Watson again. He seriously hoped they wouldn’t. Of course he would keep an eye on him from the distance. And God might help John Hamish Watson if he ever made an attempt at contacting Sherlock again.</p><p class="western">He knew what it meant to his brother. He would not see John’s girl grow up. He would never share any adventures with his adrenaline-junkie of an ex-soldier-friend again. But this door had been closed the moment John had decided to rape him. John had had his chance. Many chances, actually. And he had fucked them up greatly.</p><p class="western">“Mycroft…”</p><p class="western">He winced. He knew this tone. And this look. He wondered why he was even surprised. “No, little brother. Not a good idea now. You need rest.”</p><p class="western">“I’m resting. I’ll be fine.”</p><p class="western">“After what happened to you…”</p><p class="western">“...it’s exactly what I need.”</p><p class="western">“I could just hold you.”</p><p class="western">“Yes. Or you could make love to me. You’ll do all the work. I won’t move.” Sherlock rubbed his backside against Mycroft's crotch.</p><p class="western">Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “That’s an unfair move.”</p><p class="western">“It is. I need it. Please.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft kissed his cheek ever so gently. “No need to beg. Never. Let me shower first though.”</p><p class="western">“No. Just as you are.”</p><p class="western">“All right.” Mycroft pulled back to undress and get the lubricant from Sherlock's drawer. He had given it to him himself and asked him to explore his own needs when he couldn’t be there, and tell him about it afterwards. Sherlock had learned quickly.</p><p class="western">Little brother never ceased to amaze him. Or excite him… He had loved him all his life, and a few weeks after Sherrinford, they had found each other in a whole new way. Under the eyes of idiot John Watson.</p><p class="western">This name would not be mentioned again. At least not tonight. There was no place for him. Only the two of them mattered. Now and forever.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">It wasn’t a perfect angle for penetration. He had hardly any room to manoeuvre. To avoid hurting Sherlock, he was holding him in a tight grip, and he was moving in him almost in slow motion. But in fact, making love to little brother had never felt sweeter, never transported that many emotions, and had never meant more.</p><p class="western">He had prepared Sherlock thoroughly, of course. Sherlock's entrance, which had refused to take John Watson, was dripping with lube and even though it was still incredibly tight, it had been loosened up nicely.</p><p class="western">He didn’t ask Sherlock if he really wasn’t in pain. This would have been unworthy of his deduction skills. He could feel and see that his brother was physically as fine as possible in his condition.</p><p class="western">But Mycroft was not in the least surprised to feel wetness when he kissed Sherlock's cheek. There had to be grief. This situation was throwing him back to what had happened, no matter how often they had made love before and how deeply he trusted him. There was a loss to mourn and Mycroft didn’t diminish it with uttering silly platitudes. Sherlock knew that he would get over it. Would come out stronger than before, like he had done all his life with all the challenges he had been dealing with. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft would always have his back – not only in the literal way he was having it now. Sherlock could rely on him, always.</p><p class="western">It had taken them decades to get to this point – Sherlock accepting, embracing, and eventually returning his care for him, his love for him. Mycroft had been feeling for him like this for longer than he could remember, and it had been the greatest gift he could have wished for to realise that Sherlock didn’t despise him for it but, in fact, loved him back. It had not come out of nowhere – they had gradually gotten closer ever since preparing ‘The Fall’ and being in contact from afar during Sherlock's mission of dismantling Moriarty’s network.</p><p class="western">The Magnussen affair and the trouble with Eurus, along with Sherlock physically dominating him and even sedating and robbing him in the former and threatening the truth out of him in a rather nasty, embarrassing way in the latter, had thrown them back to their days of resentment and opposition. And John Watson had always been a problem. Sherlock had shown off for him, turning Mycroft into his archenemy and mocking him in John's presence like a teenager trying to impress the school bully.</p><p class="western">It had hurt – but it had never changed Mycroft's feelings for his brother; feelings he had discovered long ago with a feeling of shock and guilt but had accepted as persistent and inevitable in the end. And after the events of Sherrinford, when Sherlock had rediscovered memories his mind had buried along with his knowledge of Victor and Eurus, they had finally closed the distance and – it still felt like a miracle – Sherlock had fallen in love with him when he had understood the depth and nature of Mycroft's feelings for him.</p><p class="western">Mycroft would never allow this love to be destroyed – not as long as Sherlock craved it. And he didn’t feel hurt or threatened by Sherlock shedding tears for the friend he had just lost, no matter how undeserving of his affection the doctor had become in the end.</p><p class="western">He did what he could to ease Sherlock's pain and help him to get over it – by loving him, physically and emotionally. He kissed the tears from his swollen cheeks until they subsided, and then he gently kissed his brother's manhandled lips. Sherlock didn’t have as much regard for his split skin and soon Mycroft tasted blood, but it neither offended nor disgusted him. Sherlock had suffered so many injuries in his life – many of them for people called Watson – and Mycroft knew these reopened cuts were nothing more than a slight inconvenience. But he knew that his brother needed his rest and sleep, and so he took hold of the detective's so far untouched cock and started massaging it in the rhythm of his deliberately lazy strokes. Sherlock's breathing sped up and he moaned into his mouth when Mycroft let his thumb stimulate his engorged knob, teasing his slit and rubbing his perineum.</p><p class="western">It was Sherlock who tumbled over the edge first, burying his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck in an angle that could not be comfortable. Mycroft urged him to rest his head on the pillow again when he carefully chased his own orgasm with deeper but still slow strokes. He would have stopped and finished himself off outside of Sherlock's body but he knew that Sherlock needed him to fill him. They had not been a couple for very long but their equal minds and their ability to read each other made such conclusions come without effort.</p><p class="western">He was holding Sherlock tighter than ever when he reached his crisis, producing nothing more than a few low groans while emptying himself deep inside him.</p><p class="western">His heart beating in a fast rhythm, he stayed inside of his brother, enjoying the closeness and spending comfort, and Sherlock reached behind him to stroke his thigh.</p><p class="western">“Thank you,” he whispered, and Mycroft kissed his ear.</p><p class="western">“Always, little brother. I love you.” These words were not used inflationary as this too was redundant as they both knew that. But they were needed now.</p><p class="western">“Love you, too.” Sherlock sounded sleepy now, and Mycroft stroked his hair, witnessing him drifting off to sleep, still intimately entangled with him when he too dozed off, knowing that nobody could harm his beloved as long as he was at his side.</p><p class="western">And like Sherlock had made a vow to protect the Watson family for reasons only known to him, Mycroft had long ago promised himself to always watch out for his baby brother. It had not always worked due to Sherlock's reckless decisions, but now that John was out of the picture after his wife had bitten the dust already, Mycroft would never allow anyone to hurt Sherlock ever again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“It was the younger brother,” Sherlock said. “He oozes guilt behind all his arrogance.” He had watched the interrogation of both men behind the one-way mirror and there was no doubt about who had killed the elderly dentist who had been the uncle of the two suspects.</p><p class="western">Greg Lestrade nodded. “I thought so. The murder weapon though…”</p><p class="western">“You’re going to find it in his house. He hasn’t buried it anywhere. It’s in the cellar, probably in a carton with Christmas decoration.”</p><p class="western">“Awesome. I’ll have Donovan look for it. Thank you, Sherlock.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock nodded. He knew that Lestrade wanted to say a lot more. The DI had been shocked to pieces when he had seen Sherlock for the first time after John’s assault. His big eyes had gotten huge, his face pale. The past two times he had asked for his help Sherlock had told him to send him pictures of the crime scenes and the protocols, and he had solved the cases from home. But when Lestrade had asked him to come to the Yard to have a look at his two suspects, he had not hesitated, feeling the urge to face the world again.</p><p class="western">He hadn’t told anyone about that night. Apart from Mrs Hudson, who had been with him only a minute after it had happened, and who had made endless pots of tea and prepared meals for him after his brief stint at the hospital, and who would in all probability kill John with one of her frying pans should he ever dare set a foot into 221B Baker Street again.</p><p class="western">He had only left his flat to go enter the car Mycroft sent him every evening for going to his brother’s house. His concussion had vanished but of course the bruises and cuts in his face were still visible. At least he could see properly with both eyes again. So far, he had not had any private clients searching for his help. Without John’s blog, they had become rare for months anyway. And with his looks, he would have probably scared everybody off. Even Donovan had given him a sympathetic look. Did they all know? Who had given him a royal beating?</p><p class="western">At least Lestrade definitely did. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. More than I could say. I should have done something when he hit you the last time.” For a moment, the DI looked like an old man full of sorry and regret.</p><p class="western">Sherlock didn't like that. “It’s not your fault.” In fact, <em>he</em> should have removed John from his life when he had attacked him. Like an idiot, he had followed a dead woman’s plan to reconcile with John. Everything to placate his own remorse about Mary’s death, which he had caused unwillingly. To get back the friendship of the old days. But it had been just an illusion – things could have never been like this again. Too much had happened, two far they had grown apart from each other, beginning with The Fall, the turning point of their relationship. The turning point of all – further apart from John, closer to Mycroft. It had taken him long enough to realise how much he craved his brother’s presence in his life.</p><p class="western">Mycroft. His brother. His protector. His avenger. Thinking of what he had obviously done to John disturbed him. Touched him. Made him want to crawl under Mycroft's skin. It had been hard to accept. And impossible to not cherish. He would never forget that.</p><p class="western">“I hope you won’t take him back. You don’t need someone like that in your life.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock shook his head. There was no way back. John had decided to walk a path that couldn’t have led anywhere but to doom. What had he been thinking? Deep inside Sherlock knew it. John had never been in love with him. In fact, he hated him. Had never forgiven him for Mary’s death. With forcing himself onto him and hitting him for rejecting him, John had in fact punished him and made sure that there would never be a way to repair this damage. And even if John had wanted that and if Sherlock had considered accepting an apology – Mycroft would never have it. And Sherlock knew that he was right. He missed John. But he missed the John of the bright old days, not the unrecognisable, anger-driven bastard his former best friend had become. “Don’t worry. My brother told him to never show up again.” And he wouldn't.</p><p class="western">He turned to leave. “If you have another case, let me know, Greg.”</p><p class="western">The DI gave him a sad smile. “Somehow I miss you forgetting my name. Of course I will contact you. And if <em>you</em> need anything, let me know, Sherlock.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock surprised himself with smiling back. “Ah, no worries, Grant. And… thank you.”</p><p class="western">The policeman grinned and it looked relieved. “That’s better. So… You’re on better terms with your brother these days? That’s good. He always wanted your best.”</p><p class="western">Did he suspect anything? Probably not. And somehow, like with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock knew that Lestrade would not say a word if he did. “I know that. Took me a while to accept it. But now we’re good.”</p><p class="western">“Fine.”</p><p class="western">They shared another smile and then Sherlock left, feeling strangely light. And he couldn’t wait to see his brother again. And spend the night with him like he’d been doing for quite a while now.</p><p class="western">With John, things had just gotten more and more difficult ever since he had returned from the dead. And painful. A spiral of violence and mistrust, culminating in a hateful sexual assault that he would have never thought him capable of. With Mycroft, things just got better with every day. And only a small part of him – this sentimental part that kept reminding him of the good days they had spent – allowed itself to wonder how John was doing and how he was coping with what Mycroft had unleashed at him – he had not and would not ask Mycroft about the details but he had deduced that it had included sexual violence as well.</p><p class="western">The larger, rational part of him knew – with sadness, resignation and acceptance – that the man he had once called his best friend had utterly deserved it.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">Ex-teacher, ex-husband and ex-decent-citizen Barney Louis Harrington had been living on the streets for more than twenty years. The dirty parts of East London and the beautiful parks of the City were his home in equal measures. He had been everywhere – and had not been welcome anywhere. He tried to keep himself as tidy as possible, washed and shaved himself whenever he got the chance. Sometimes he was shouted at and mocked. Sometimes a nice lady gave him some money, or a man who looked like a banker or a businessman treated him to a coffee. It wasn’t a happy life but it was not that miserable, either. It was what it was.</p><p class="western">He was not an antisocial man. He liked to talk to people – only most people didn't want to talk to him. After all those years he did know which people to turn to – and which to avoid at all costs if he didn’t want to be insulted or perhaps even beaten. That had happened to him often enough in his early years as a free man – free of obligations, expectations and constricting care of people who had thought they knew him. Free of anyone bothering about him, too… There were many like him out there. <em>Lost souls</em>, the church would say. <em>Free like a bird</em>, he and probably most of the people who called the streets of London their home would say.</p><p class="western">But the man he saw on the bench in Hyde Park, the bench he considered to be his, irritated him. He looked as if he had been sleeping in his clothes for quite a while. He had a grey-blond beard and his hair hadn’t been washed for days, maybe weeks. But his dirty clothes were rather new, and they had been expensive. They fitted him so they had not been a gift by a sympathetic stranger. His shoes were good. Everything one needed to know about the man was in his shoes. Barney would have given a lot to own shoes like this – his own (and only) pair was falling apart at the seams.</p><p class="western">Anyway… The short man had a bottle of beer in his hand but it was half-full. Good brand. A present, maybe. A bag was standing next to him, also an expensive brand. His face was swollen and his eyes were sad. Not empty though. Intelligent. A rather wealthy, probably educated man – there was a newspaper next to him on the bench and he had not used it to cover himself. Fallen from grace, probably only recently. Still rather young, certainly way younger than Barney. A man who must have friends who could offer him to stay with them. Why was he here? Not because he'd had enough of his former life and had been looking for this special kind of freedom. In fact, he looked as if his soul had been shattered to pieces. He looked… like only <em>women</em> who ended up on park benches looked…</p><p class="western">He should have walked past him. But two large blue eyes were looking up at him with a mixture of pain and anger and pleading. “Hey. Want a beer?” the younger man asked, pulling another bottle from his bag.</p><p class="western">Barney never said no to a bottle of beer. Nobody he knew did. “Sure,” he said and let himself drop onto the bench – with some distance between the man and him. He didn’t really think that the stranger wanted to pay for certain favours with the beer. He had seen enough of them. Not for the past ten years though. And this one was none of them. He only wanted… attention? From him? He really had to be desperate…</p><p class="western">The blond guy handed the bottle to him.</p><p class="western">“Thanks,” Barney said. He felt uncomfortable but he was not impolite enough to take the beer and leave.</p><p class="western">The man nodded. “Got some more. Need them.”</p><p class="western">And he obviously needed someone to talk to. “Bad times, eh?” Barney raised the bottle. “On better times.”</p><p class="western">The man gave him the saddest smile he had ever seen. “There won't be any better times for me.”</p><p class="western">And Barney knew he would very soon hear the man's life story if he wanted or not. He wouldn’t tell him his own. There was nothing to say, actually. He had just lost it. Lost everything and given up fighting. Life was okay like this.</p><p class="western">But this man had not reached this stage of acceptance yet. Perhaps he would never do so.</p><p class="western">“What's your name?” he asked Barney.</p><p class="western">Barney told him. Only his first name. Nobody used their last name on the street. Some of them had forgotten all about it.</p><p class="western">“I'm John Watson.” The man with the blond beard gave him a look as if this name should be familiar to him. “<em>The</em> John Watson.”</p><p class="western">And it did ring a bell. A very silent one, though.</p><p class="western">John didn’t miss that. He chuckled, but it didn’t sound very humorous. “Ah, great to meet someone who doesn’t know him.”</p><p class="western">Him? What was he talking about?</p><p class="western">“Sherlock Fucking Holmes.” John spat out the name with suddenly furious eyes.</p><p class="western">And Barney had the image of a young man with a silly hat. He nodded. “Ah, that man.” Wasn’t he a policeman?</p><p class="western">John grimaced. “Yeah. Knew you'd recall <em>him</em>. I was like nothing next to him. The blogger. The assistant. The man who wasn’t worth knowing that he wasn't dead. And then he and his fucking… <em>bitch</em> of a brother ruined my life.” Drool had spurted out of John’s mouth at that last sentence and he didn’t even seem to notice it.</p><p class="western">Barney had no idea what to say to this. But he was quite sure he didn’t have to say anything. This man who was complaining about being invisible next to a man everybody recognised didn’t see <em>him</em> either. He wasn’t really talking to him. He was talking to himself. And since Barney didn’t have anything better to do and thought there might be another beer for him, he stayed. And listened. With more and more horror… A story of a wife being killed because the man named Sherlock Holmes couldn’t shut up if his life depended on it. The story of a man who had played with John’s feelings and then pushed him away. And finally, the horror story of the man's brother who’d had a woman fucking him with a giant sex toy.</p><p class="western">“He said he’d thought about castrating me,” John whispered, caught in his own saga of the unspeakable.</p><p class="western">Barney involuntarily pressed his legs together.</p><p class="western">“He grinned at me while she was putting this… thing into me. I needed stitches. Still can't sit comfortably. And don't ask me how it feels to shit…”</p><p class="western">Barney wouldn’t have dreamt of asking him about that.</p><p class="western">“Lost my job. Couldn’t even get up for days. Forgot to call my boss… And my girl… She's better off without me. What life can I offer her?” John made an all-encompassing gesture. “Should she live on the streets?”</p><p class="western">“Don't you… Don't you have friends who can help you?” Barney couldn’t help but ask.</p><p class="western">John snorted. “Friends! My best friend was this shithole of a bastard. And the others? They are all <em>his</em> friends! Every one of them would take his side!”</p><p class="western">Barney was quite good at reading between the lines. That situation in which this Sherlock guy had rejected him – John didn’t seem like a man who would react to something like this in a very friendly manner. And that the man's brother had done something that nasty to him afterwards… Barney wasn't an idiot… But he had the second bottle of beer in his hand. He nodded. “That sucks.”</p><p class="western">“Yes! Never thought I would end up like this. And it's all his fault.” Tears were suddenly streaming down his cheeks. Tears of self-pity and anger.</p><p class="western">And Barney felt strangely insulted. “It's not such a bad life,” he tried to defend his, well, lifestyle. “You'll get used to it.”</p><p class="western">“I don't wanna get used to it!” John screeched. “I'm a doctor and a captain and I was famous! I can't live like some… tramp!”</p><p class="western">Barney had enough. With some dignity, he put the bottle onto the ground and got up. “Well, if you ask me, you had it coming. Thanks for the beer.” And with this he walked away, quicker than he would have usually done, because he wouldn’t have been surprised if this man with so much suppressed aggression had thrown a bottle at his head. But it didn’t happen, and the last thing he heard from the man named John Watson wasn't a curse or an insult but loud sobbing, and Barney thought that he could really call himself lucky that he had never experienced any drama like this in all his sixty years of life. And if anyone had asked him to guess, he would have said that this man would not even reach fifty…</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">“A bit more?”</p><p class="western">Sherlock rubbed his flat stomach. “It’s delicious, Mycroft, but no. I’ve had enough.”</p><p class="western">“Just a tiny bit of my famous pasta?” Mycroft pleaded, tilting his head. He grinned when Sherlock genuinely beamed at him.</p><p class="western">“I know what you’re doing. You want me to get so obese that I’ll never leave your bed again.”</p><p class="western">Mycroft sneaked a tiny helping of <em>spaghetti primavera</em> onto Sherlock's almost empty plate. His brother had maybe gained two pounds over the past weeks and Mycroft wouldn’t have minded to help him add some more. It suited him. “Ah, I wouldn’t dream of that. You are allowed to go out and solve cases and insult people. As long as you come back to me in the evening.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock wasn’t spending <em>every</em> evening with him – sometimes Mycroft had to attend ghastly gatherings in Whitehall that ended very late, sometimes Sherlock worked on a case for the Met half the night. But usually he spent his days in Baker Street, doing experiments and talking to private clients, and headed over to him to have dinner with him and stay the night. It worked fine. Better than fine… They had been a happy couple before John had found it necessary to destroy the last ruins of their friendship and they were only becoming happier with every night they were together.</p><p class="western">Sherlock gave him a serious look out of these incredible eyes. “I will always come back to you.”</p><p class="western">This had changed between them since John’s attack – they were more open about their feelings. Of course they were both capable of deducing them but they had found out that it felt tremendously nice to speak them out. Mycroft still despised sentiment and was completely convinced that caring was indeed a disadvantage that had to be avoided at any cost – but not between the two of them. He loved Sherlock with all his heart and little brother returned the feeling wholeheartedly, and there was nothing wrong with uttering these feelings when they were alone. Mrs Hudson might suspect that their relationship wasn’t quite that brotherly anymore but she never said anything, and when Mycroft visited Sherlock in Baker Street, they always kept their clothes on and their words innocuous when there was even a slight chance that she might surprise them. Gestures and words of love were limited to the safety of Mycroft's home, and it was just fine with them.</p><p class="western">“That’s good to know, little brother. Well then. Let’s eat up, clear the table and then watch some nasty telly, hm?”</p><p class="western">“You tease. You know I hate watching telly.”</p><p class="western">“Do you now?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “So what else do you suggest?”</p><p class="western">“Sex, Mycroft!” The detective shovelled the rest of the pasta into his mouth while glowering at him most unconvincingly.</p><p class="western">Mycroft faked a gasp. “Seriously? Well, if you insist…” It was so nice to see Sherlock like this. Light and in the mood for jokes. And sex...</p><p class="western">“I do, brother mine. I do.”</p><p class="western">And fifteen minutes later, the dishes were in the dishwasher and the brothers got prepared for another night of showing each other what love really was about.</p><p class="western">*****</p><p class="western">Mycroft knew how he had to look. His head resting against two thick pillows, he was staring up into Sherlock's face and his eyes had to give away the depth and strength of his love. His right hand was on Sherlock's cheeks, his left stabilising his waist, while his brother was sinking down on him, taking him in. If Mycroft had been a religious man, he would call these moments holy. Becoming one with the man he loved beyond reason or limits. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Sherlock – and nothing would make him give up this intimacy, this feeling when Sherlock took him into this constricting heat, allowing him to intrude him, claim him and make him his, time after time.</p><p class="western">In the beginning, Sherlock had asked him what he would do if it came out, if anyone threatened them to expose them to Mycroft's superiors. <em>‘I would take your hand and run’</em> he had said, and he had meant it. He didn’t really expect this to happen but of course he was prepared. Two sets of false papers for each of them. A house in a Southern American country he had bought ten years ago using one of the names. There would be a way out. He didn’t want to take it if it wasn’t necessary. He liked his position of power. He loved his country. And Sherlock identified himself as a detective with some fame. He wouldn’t be able to do that so easily somewhere else.</p><p class="western">He knew that Sherlock was still missing the doctor. The doctor of the old days when John had admired the ground he was walking on. But they both knew that John had long ceased to be this man before he had attacked Sherlock. But the wounds may have healed and Sherlock had become used to solving his cases alone again but the good memories were not erased so easily, and probably Sherlock wanted to keep them, as bittersweet as they might be. Mycroft was fine with that – as long as there wouldn’t be a revival of the Baker Street Boys, and this was very unlikely. In the end, even the forgiving, loyal Sherlock had realised that some people were not worth his faith and efforts.</p><p class="western">Mycroft was, and it made him very happy that Sherlock had found that out, too. He smiled when Sherlock bent down to kiss him. His hands moved to his brother’s delectable arse, and he kneaded it while his tongue was playing with Sherlock's and his cock was sliding in and almost out of his brother’s canal.</p><p class="western">Sherlock moaned into his mouth in his deep voice when Mycroft met his rhythm from below, using the strength of his long legs to push against his brother’s arse, skin clashing on skin. Mycroft was unbearably hard and when his right hand let go of Sherlock's globes to wrap around his cock, he found a matching stiffness, wet on the tip. Sherlock shuddered, his head bending back, and he came with a sound that never ceased to amaze – and excite – Mycroft. A long, deep, guttural groan with a hint of a whine. It sounded cute and arousing and it made Mycroft follow him over the edge with a smile, his seed shooting up into his brother’s canal while his hips were bucking up uncontrolled.</p><p class="western">“What are you smiling about, hm?” Sherlock asked him, his voice a tad shivery, when he gracefully sank down onto him, Mycroft's only slowly softening cock still keeping them tied to each other.</p><p class="western">“This lovely meowing noise you make when you come.” It sounded more like a tiger but it was funnier this way...</p><p class="western">It had the desired effect. “Mycroft! What do you think I am – a kitten?” Blue-green eyes gave him a smouldering look – of deep affection and with barely concealed amusement.</p><p class="western">Mycroft’s arms curled around his beloved little brother, holding him close. “Yes,” he smirked. “You’re my cute little kitten.”</p><p class="western">“Cute?! It gets worse by the second!” Sherlock kissed his throat. “Nasty brother.”</p><p class="western">“Guilty as charged.” John Watson would certainly agree. Mycroft had only this morning seen him on a CCTV camera. He hadn’t looked very happy. Or clean. Or as if he didn’t curse every new morning. Mycroft had smiled.</p><p class="western">Sherlock snuggled against him, sated and content. He rubbed his face against Mycroft's collarbone when the blanket was stuffed tightly around him. “Love you.”</p><p class="western">“Love you, too, little brother.”</p><p class="western">Sherlock was safe. Happy. Feeling loved and respected. And Mycroft would do anything in his considerable power to assure that this would never change.</p><p class="western">Nothing else mattered.</p><p class="western">The End</p>
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